


Polaroids

by Smushed



Series: Blinded [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blind Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 14:16:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1651628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smushed/pseuds/Smushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>ANONYMOUS:<br/>Prompt: sherlock realizes that he is going blind. It has occurred in his family before: his uncle had an incurable form of progressive blindness. Because he is fiercely independent and scared of losing the respect of John, he tries to hide what's happening until one day, near the end of the progression, he disappears. John panics and looks for him all day, only to find him, unresponsive and retreated to his mind palace in the park, completely blind, scared and alone. Describe the transition from independence and sight to the dependence on John he hates so much and blindness. Include much hurt/comfort/vulnerable sherlock, use of the cane, waking up from scary dreams, and trying to return to the work and needing john. I saw the other blind prompt that you did and I loved it! I hope you do this one, and I’m sorry if it’s hard to write or something haha.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Polaroids

**Author's Note:**

> ANONYMOUS:  
> Prompt: sherlock realizes that he is going blind. It has occurred in his family before: his uncle had an incurable form of progressive blindness. Because he is fiercely independent and scared of losing the respect of John, he tries to hide what's happening until one day, near the end of the progression, he disappears. John panics and looks for him all day, only to find him, unresponsive and retreated to his mind palace in the park, completely blind, scared and alone. Describe the transition from independence and sight to the dependence on John he hates so much and blindness. Include much hurt/comfort/vulnerable sherlock, use of the cane, waking up from scary dreams, and trying to return to the work and needing john. I saw the other blind prompt that you did and I loved it! I hope you do this one, and I’m sorry if it’s hard to write or something haha.

Sherlock’s fears were becoming a reality. In the mornings, his vision would double slightly, and sometimes he could blink it away. Then he couldn’t. 

Then came the fading of light, which had to be the most terrifying. Sometimes he would wake up, and it would be dark, although he could hear the traffic outside Baker Street and the bustle of John in the kitchen.

It was gradual, and so were the other symptoms. Nightmares slowly crept up on him, ruining what sleep he had. He would dream of falling into a black hole, never to witness another face again. 

John often found Sherlock staring into the distance, and Sherlock would often stare through John. He wasn’t though, he was memorising John’s features, he did it once a day. He couldn’t forget this face. So he would disguise his staring at John, as staring through space instead. 

Sherlock was growing worse, John knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. Sherlock had a retractable stick he started keeping in his pocket of his Belstaff, and he would often go out alone in case he had to use it, but other than that he stayed indoors. He refused to be in his room, in case he could watch John, any opportunity to see John doing his tasks, even Mycroft and Mrs Hudson and his parents, he stopped being unbearable to his company, he was passive about them so that they wouldn’t leave in a hurry. 

But he mostly watched John. Those strong calloused hands handle the delicate china, making cups of tea, the creases that deepen when John smiles. Sherlock tried hard to make John smile, it was difficult because he was finding it hard to smile himself. He left things around the flat to gain a positive reaction from John, he wanted to catalogue them. 

He knew John loved music but never got a chance, so he went out of his way to acquire an almost new but genuine 60s record player and some vinyls and left them on the kitchen table. “Are these?” John asked, taking one out of its case with such gentleness, as though it may crumble at the touch. “Yes, yours.” The look on the doctor’s face was priceless, his eyes lit up, his grin was broad, teeth white and even his hair looked lighter. Something about John could light up a room, light up Sherlock’s life- even when his eyesight was slipping from him. 

Sherlock found it harder to make John happy, and John started asking more questions. He felt the weight on his shoulders from the incurable disease, he couldn’t read any more, but there was no point, he researched all there was on it and there was no way for it to be reversed.

He reassured John with his hand on John’s shoulder, his mind palace clearing all the useless information that he would no longer be able to use, all the special information on blood spatter and anything he learned. He made a brand new space and filled it with polaroids of John, his smile, his hand against his face, the way he drank his tea, his frown, his lips, eyes when they were shut, the eyelashes against his cheek, he memorised the look of his hand on John’s shoulder, the look of curiosity when he saw Sherlock contemplate kissing him, the nervous laughter when John saw Sherlock showing his feelings. 

He kept them all, a gallery in his mind palace, constantly revisiting them.

He was terrified, and slowly the pictures became darker, he would revisit the brighter ones, try and lighten the images he was seeing with what he had catalogued before, but it was no use. So when he woke up one morning, completely blind, he left the flat, it took him a moment to make sure he wouldn’t wake John, wouldn’t fall down the stairs, but he managed it. He clung to the polaroids in his mind palace, the images that made tears stream down his useless eyes. He couldn’t see, blackness was all around, but the sound of traffic and people informed him it was still early. 5am, perhaps, maybe 4.30. He didn’t care.

He kept walking, his walking stick ahead of him, crossing roads without much care for being hit. He choked sobs, he felt grass beneath his stick and dropped it, hearing the small rustle of grass beneath his bare feet, feeling the cold blades lead him into the field. He walked aimlessly until he reached a tree, and settling against it he brought his knees up to his chest and cried.

Sherlock hadn’t cried like this since he was a boy and he lost his best friend, Red Beard. 

He felt the sun rise, the clouds cover it, he felt herds of people pass him, dogs curiously sniff him, but he did not move. The image of John smiling bore into his mind, and he clung to it.

John found him later that day, he heard the footsteps of the good doctor rush to him, he could hear the very slight hesitation every other step, Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut at the idea that he could even bring John’s limp back.

"Christ, Sherlock, I’ve been looking for you. A note wouldn’t go amiss for God’s sake." He stopped then, and got to his knees, hands at Sherlock’s forearms, trying to pry them away from his knees so that he could see his face. "Sherlock? You alright?" He asked.

After a few minutes the detective sat up, looking ahead, eyelids open to no difference to his vision he looked through John.

"I can’t see." 

John’s heart snapped in two, he waved a hand in front of Sherlock’s face.

"Christ, Sherlock how long has this been going on for?" 

The detective’s tears were falling again, silently. “Years, very gradually. But only these past few months has my vision been rapidly declining, and only today have I woken up with no vision at all.” 

Everything in the poor ex-soldier’s mind clicked together, Sherlock’s kind gestures, how bearable he had been in the flat, the lovely things he had been doing, his lack of mood swings. Sherlock stiffened as he felt John’s arms wrap around him.

"Oh, Sherlock… You should have told me." 

__________________________

The weeks passed then, that Sherlock slowly came over his pride and allowed John to assist him. They walked together, every now and then Sherlock would grip John’s coat sleeve tightly. The waves of anxiety and fear overcame him when outside the flat. Inside the flat Sherlock was agitated at himself for being unable to do things, which John tried to steady.

It was a painful transition, Sherlock felt like he was a burden, a waste of time, he could only deduce so much without his vision. He was good with witnesses, detecting if they were lying by their voices. 

Not even Sally had a word to say when she saw Sherlock arrive, arm linking John’s, as they approached the crime scene in baby steps, Sherlock would always look up and ahead of him, but his heart would always be in the pit of his stomach.

After months of this, Sherlock got into his mood, he had cut his arm on a knife in the sink and was refusing to let John treat him.

"John, just leave me, I’m not worth this much trouble. I can’t even deduce a petty criminal!" He yelled, voice faltering and shaking towards the end, he grimaced, hand against the wardrobe as he stood with hunched shoulders in his room. He punched it in frustration, and that was when John had had enough.

"Sherlock," He sighed audibly at the sight of him.

"Leave me, John. Just go." He snapped, turning to face him, eyes staring out into nothing. 

"No." 

Sherlock stood forwards and went to physically remove him from his room, one hand at John’s shoulder the other at his arm, shoving him, face contorting in his anguish.

"Sherlock!" John roared, he quickly wrestled Sherlock and shoved the detective onto his bed. Sherlock tried to struggle back, but John was stronger with his will to be in Sherlock’s life than Sherlock was with trying to rid John from his.

"I’m not worth it," He finally stopped struggling, John had straddled his waist and had pinned his arms, the blood from his cut smeared over them.

John visibly sighed.

"You’re worth than you know to me, Sherlock. And I think you know that already." 

Sherlock shook his head, going to start fighting John off of him again, but John had gripped Sherlock’s face in his hands, breath panting in heated waves, dancing across his cheeks, and that made him freeze.

"You know, Sherlock. You know, say it out loud. Say what I think." 

Sherlock shook his head, John’s hands caged his face tighter.

"You know! You know what I think just say-" His voice broke, and at that sound it fell from his mouth.

"You love me." 

John smiled, Sherlock could feel a teardrop land on his eyelid. He felt the smile on his mouth as John pressed their faces together. It was broad, it was soft, warm, wet. He lay unmoving. Sherlock didn’t want John to love him, for John to be stuck with him, but he wanted to treasure that smile forever. It was the only polaroid he remembered, and now he felt it against his face.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you smiling like that day I gave you the records?" Sherlock asked, John went to move, but Sherlock kept John’s face against his own with his hand at the nape of John’s neck.

The doctor hesitated for a moment before he spoke. “Wider.” 

Sherlock frowned.

"It’s wider, I don’t remember the last time I smiled like this." Sherlock’s hand tightened around the nape of John’s neck. "It’s… broad, so broad it ages me, with all my wrinkles, probably. It’s for you. This smile, feel it." Sherlock felt John’s kiss then. It was deep and longing, and Sherlock couldn’t help it, he gripped John tightly against him. They kissed for a long time until neither of them could tell whose tears were whose, Sherlock’s hands touched John’s face everywhere, his lip, his brow, behind his ears.

"God I love you, John. I’m scared." 

"You don’t need to be. I’ve got you." John kissed him again, to seal their promise.

 


End file.
